Bring Out Your Dead
by Doctor Starlock
Summary: A few years after defeating the criminal Khan, Spock suddenly finds himself dragged into a wild, high-stakes search for a ghost from the past -his past.
1. Chapter 1

Molly Hooper knew. Even before the tests, the doctor's visit, before the proof, she knew. Something-some_one-_-was growing inside her.

And she knew who it was, too. A tiny organism, a minuscule creature not yet bigger than her hand, a ball of unknown potential that hadn't even decided who it would be yet. A baby, still weaving itself into being with her genes and those of Sherlock Holmes.

That night stood out in Molly's memory like an old favorite song stands out from radio static. It had not happened on purpose; Sherlock had simply come over to her flat to pick up some samples she'd gotten for him from the morgue. Then he had stayed for a cuppa. Molly would never have thought she had it in her to be so bold; it was while he was sitting there at the counter, complaining about John's going away on holiday, that she felt that longing well up, that familiar feeling of need. And then she'd kissed him without prelude-she, Molly Hooper, had got the steel in her to snog Sherlock Holmes!

And that, of course, had just been the beginning of a long night, a short night, a night of darkness and light, of confusion and revelation. Then she'd woken up in the morning and found herself alone, and she'd wondered if maybe it had all been a dream, another dream of her and Sherlock. But as she'd eaten breakfast she'd suspected that something was different. It had taken a few breakfasts, a couple dinners too, but after a few days, Molly decided that she was definitely not the same anymore, and she would never be the same again.

It had been a mistake. It had been a mistake, but not one Molly regretted. Especially now.

John's face twisted in sympathetic pain. "D'you want to come in and sit down?"

Molly nodded numbly, and John led her into the sitting room. She dropped herself into the armchair, the one that Sherlock always sat in while playing his violin, when he was in one of his thoughtful moods. She gently put a hand to her stomach-all she had left now.

"Well...Do you know where he went?" Molly asked.

John shook his head. Then he checked himself. "I mean, I _do_ know...but I'm not allowed to say."

"This is Mycroft, isn't it?" she asked in a small voice. "He dropped hints whenever I saw him. I wondered what was up. He was awfully _not_ subtle."

John nodded. "Mycroft does love to be dramatic."

Molly rubbed the upholstery with her thumb. "Will he ever be back? Or is that classified too?"

John rubbed his eyes. "Well, I actually haven't been told anything, but I don't think he'll ever be back."

Molly looked at John for a while. She tried to force a smile. "You're going with him soon, aren't you? You're not as broken up about this as I'd expect you to be."

The doctor gave a weary smile. "Yes, I expect to go the same way as him. Mostly because I don't think Sherlock will do anything for them; he'll insist on my company."

Molly wondered who "they" were, but she didn't press. She felt a pang in her chest-not of jealousy, maybe, but definitely sadness, disappointment. Of course Sherlock would ask for John. That's the way it had always been, and now there was no time to change things. Molly twisted the hem of her shirt in her hand. Sometimes she thought her clothes felt tighter, but she knew she was imagining things; she wasn't far enough along to be showing.

John was looking at his hands. After a moment of quiet, he said, "Molly, I don't mean to pry, but...what did you need to see Sherlock for?"

Here it was, the moment she had to explain. While she was disappointed she'd never be able to tell Sherlock herself, at least it was easier to tell John Watson. At least John's reaction would be somewhat predictable. Sherlock, on the other hand...Would he have been angry? Excited? Scared? Would he have even cared?

"John, I...I'm pregnant."

John smiled. "Well, congratulations, Molly!"

"You don't understand," Molly said, shaking her head. "I'm pregnant with..." She made a vague gesture with her hand around the room.

John's eyes widened. "Oh. Oh! Uh...er..." He coughed and twisted his lips around a bit. "You're...you're sure it's...Sherlock?"

Molly nodded meekly.

John nodded as well. What was in his eyes, besides shock? Disbelief? Shame? Hurt? "God, you're...you're serious? That's...I mean, it's..."

"I don't know what it is," Molly said, suddenly tearing up. "It was an accident, but...I mean, now that he's gone, I'm not sorry. But...now what do I do? Sherlock's gone, and I'm going to have a baby, and..." Tears began to flow down her cheeks. She held her hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing.

"Well, have you...I mean, have you considered all the...er, options? Adoption, um, abortion...?" John suggested lamely. Molly gave him a look. They both knew she'd never do any such thing.

"Does...Does Sherlock know?" John asked after an awkward silence. He puffed out his cheeks and looked at Molly.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "At least, I don't think so. I haven't seen him since, um, since that night. I mean..." She sighed shakily. "I don't know. He might."

John nodded. "This is Sherlock we're talking about."

"Yeah..." Molly wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I just...wanted to tell him." She tried to smile. "I wonder how he would've, you know, reacted."

"Probably said something insensitive before you even got the chance to tell him," John said. He straightened his back and put on an imperious expression-a good imitation of Sherlock. "'Molly, I see by the turn-ups on your jeans that you are pregnant.'"

Molly giggled gratefully. Then she signed and looked down at her hands. "I guess we'll never know."

John laid a hand on Molly's. "I'll tell him," he said gently. "That is, if you want me to."

Molly gave him a weak smile. "That'd be, um...lovely."

John sat back and nodded. "Even if you never get to see his reaction, he should still know."

Molly nodded. "Yes," she assented, her voice so soft that it was scarcely more than an exhalation. She cupped her face in her hand and cried silently, letting the tears pool in her palm.

John let her cry unmolested, moving about in the kitchen so she could be alone. He made a kettle of tea and then brought some out to Molly. She let him get her into conversations about the mundane-cricket and football, things on the telly, the royal family, books. She was grateful for the distraction.

Finally Molly rose to go. John walked her to the door. She looked at him.

"How much longer will you be..." She glanced round the flat. "When will you be leaving...here?"

John looked wistful. "Not much longer, I expect. They'll probably come for me any day; probably sooner than later. Sherlock can be very persuasive."

"Um, who...who's 'they'?" Molly asked, unable to help herself. "You can't tell me anything, I suppose."

John sighed. "Well...it has nothing to do with eugenics. And no connection with Baskerville." He winked when Molly gave him a blank star. Molly smiled.

"_Oh_. Right. Nothing to do with them at all." She chuckled a bit. She could feel that her smile did not reach her eyes. And suddenly she knew that she would never see John Watson again.

"I don't know what it'll be," she said hurriedly. "I mean, boy or girl. But I'm...I'll make Holmes part of the name." She looked at her feet. "It's just...I mean, Sherlock might, you know, want to know..."

John smiled and nodded. "Of course. I'll be sure and tell him." They said their goodbyes and Molly stepped outside. She crossed the street and looked back at 221B. John was standing at the window, holding Sherlock's pet skull in his hand and staring up at the rooftops.

The next day Molly returned to Baker Street, just to make sure. Mrs. Hudson answered the door, and her distressed expression confirmed Molly's intuitive feeling: John was gone. He'd been taken away, he and Sherlock, and they would most likely never be back. And so she was alone. Almost.


	2. Chapter 2

Violet Antonia Hooper Holmes loved to hear stories about her father. Once she figured out that she did not own a father but that she must have one somewhere, that is. At first she'd had this vague idea that "father" was like "God", maybe even the same thing. But then she'd been told a little more about God, and they didn't seem to be quite exactly the same thing, so she decided that "father" must be like "Prime Minister"-slightly more attainable but still far away. But then she heard her mum complaining about Prime Minister, and so Violet concluded that they were not the same thing either. So she asked for help.

"Mummy," she asked on morning, "what is father?"

Mummy was very still for a while. Then she moved again. "You mean who?" Violet thought about this, then nodded, though she wasn't sure of the difference. Mummy took a deep breath. "Well...your dad-your father-is Sherlock Holmes."

Violet knew her full name. She pointed to herself. "Holmes. Like me!" Mummy nodded. Violet scrunched up her nose. "Where is he?"

Her mother stirred her cereal slowly. "He's...well, he's...chasing hounds on the moor."

This of course necessitated the explanation of what "moor" was, one thing led to another, and the subject was dropped for the time being. But a different day Violet asked where her father was, and then once more at bedtime, and soon it became the nighttime ritual.

Where is Sherlock Holmes now? What is he doing?

The answer was different every night. Tonight your father is in Russia, freeing a man from prison. Right now your father is in Africa, learning how to get honey from killer bees. Today your father was on the high seas, crossing swords with fierce pirates.

Violet loved to listen to her mother's voice, soft and sweet, telling all these tales. lulling her to sleep each night. But she also knew that these were not all true. The only true stories were the ones where Sherlock was a superhero. That was how Violet thought of her father: a superhero. Sometimes when she felt sad she'd think of all Mummy's stories about Sherlock saving people, and then she thought maybe her father was an angel.


	3. Chapter 3

_Light._

_The first thing he was conscious of was light. how long had it been since he had felt that piercing thing? There was no way to know. Yet._

_He heard gasps. Not loud-just tiny inhalations that only his ears alone could ever have caught. _

_He opened his eyes. People were standing over him, looking down at him. He suppressed a smile. What a lovely way to wake up. Energy suddenly made his fingers tingle. A voracious excitement sprang up inside. _

_Because the first thing he had seen...was fear._


	4. Chapter 4

_Two guards escorted him down a sleek black corridor. They wore trim blue uniforms-they possessed something akin to military training; both ranking at crewman first class, both had been working at their positions for two years; the man was married with two children, and the woman was sleeping with somebody's fiance; the man was not likely to be promoted any time soon, but the woman was in line for ensign; both were carrying sidearms that could be set to lethal. And both were trying to appear unafraid-and failing_

_All this he could tell from one glance. _

_He was silent as they led him along. They were wary and anxious, but not enough to escort him along by the elbow. He ignored their sidelong glances and focused on observing his surroundings. He was either in an underground facility or a starship. The corridors didn't give much clue as to the year. Humans-regular humans-moved cyclically between energetic fits of remarkable progress and long periods of regressive lethargy. And as he had been asleep there was no way of knowing by deduction alone which had taken place during his slumber. Thirty years could have passed, or three hundred. _

_The escort led him through a set of doors that slid smoothly open of their own accord. he stepped into a large room with sleek computer banks along the walls, with desk-like consoles at the front of the chamber. A large chair was just a step above the others, overseeing the empty room._

_He smiled to himself. The bridge of a starship. _

_"Down here," the woman guard directed. The two crewmen led him down to the far front corner of the bridge, where another door awaited. _

_"Captain's cabin," he observed just loud enough to be heard. _

_The two guards stared at him uneasily. "The ready room, yes," the female crewman said. He followed his escorts through the door. _

_His eyes immediately began analyzing the room and the person in front of him. Tall widower in his late middle ages; admiral rank; probably came from a family with a history in the military or law enforcement; had at least one child, a daughter; allergic to dogs. _

_The admiral rose slowly as one of the guards reported: "Sir, the man from the cryotube has been revived." _

_"I can see that, crewman," the admiral said sharply. His voice was gruff and chipped._

_The admiral stepped forward and looked at him. They would be the same height, if the admiral would only remove his orthopedic inserts. A stupid, decaying old man. How delightful. _

_"What's your name, frozen man?" barked the admiral. _

_"My name is Khan Noonien Singh," he answered smoothly, unruffled by the admiral's sharpness. _

_"Do you know why I had you taken out of that cryotube and woken up?" the admiral demanded curtly. _

_Khan's lips curled up into a wicked smile. Oh yes. Of course he knew. He knew everything. He could see it all so clearly, even more clearly than this buffoon in front of him. Did he know? What a tiresome question. _

_"I know why," he said, letting his low voice rumble. "Because you need my help."_


	5. Chapter 5

The Earth's sun shone brightly on the green lawns of the Academy. Classes were in session and there were few people outside. Spock looked back down at his tablet.

"Hey there. What're you doing?"

He raised his head and saw Uhura take a seat next to him. "Research," Spock answered simply.

"Research on what?"

"At the destruction of Vulcan, my family's formal ancestry records were lost. Of late I have been working on my own personal project to restore them." He looked down at the tablet. "Since my mother's ancestry was not included in the original record, I have taken the liberty of including it in this new record."

Nyota put a hand on his shoulder and stroked his shirt with her thumb. "I know you're still grieving about her," she said quietly. "If you ever want to talk..."

"Nyota," Spock broke in, "if you are implying that I am doing this because I want to be emotionally in touch with my mother, you are mistaken. This is research I am gathering for posterity's sake."

Uhura removed her hand. "And?" she asked. "What have you found so far?"

"At present I am beginning my research on the fifth generation back. My great-great-great-grandmother was named Violet Antonia Hooper Holmes. I am looking for the identity of her mother and father."

Nyota cocked her head to one side. "You never really talk very much about your family, Spock. When I was a little girl my grandmother told stories about her childhood, about her parents and grandparents. What about you? Don't you have any stories like that?"

Spock blinked. "We had many historical narratives which were recited among my clan."

"What about your mother?" Uhura prodded. "She never told you any stories about her human ancestors?"

He pondered this for a moment. "There is one story I recall her telling me, in private, about her great-great-great-great grandfather. It is possible she told me others, but that is the only account I remember in detail, perhaps because the man she described was a bit...Vulcan-like."

"Oh?" Uhura mused, obviously intrigued. "What was that story?"

"My mother told me that this ancestor had been a human male who impregnated my ancestress and then disappeared."

Nyota blinked at Spock for a moment. Then she groaned and lightly smacked his knees. "Spock!"

The Vulcan was perplexed. "What is the problem?"

"You made it sound so interesting! Come on, tell me the _story_. I don't just want the barest boring facts."

Spock knit his eyebrows together. "My mother did present the account to me as fact."

"Okay," Uhura conceded, "but I bet she told it to you in a much more interesting way. What else do you remember about it?"

"According to my mother," Spock said, "my ancestor's name was Sherlock Holmes. My mother described him as an emotionless man with the occupation of 'consulting detective.'"

Nyota looked confused. "Consulting detective? What's that?"

"I believe the title is a bit self-explanatory."

She made a face. "Yeah, but, I mean, I've never heard of a 'consulting detective,' not in the present or in history books."

"It is a rather singular title," Spock agreed. "My mother spoke as if it were a very particular, or perhaps _exclusive_, profession."

"Maybe he was the only one in the world," Uhura mused.

"It is possible," Spock agreed. "My mother described Sherlock Holmes as extremely intelligent and mysterious. In her story she claimed that he once jumped off a building and faked his death to trick a criminal mastermind into committing suicide."

"What, really!?" Nyota exclaimed. "That's unbelievable!"

"Indeed, it is unbelievable," Spock said. "My mother seemed to attribute my ancestor with many skills and characteristics that were inhuman or even almost superhuman."

"You don't believe your mother's story?"

Spock cocked his head slightly. "Do _you_ believe all the stories you have been told about _your _ancestors?"

Uhura ignored his question. "You said he was a consulting detective, possibly the only one in the world. Wouldn't someone like that be on historical records? Look him up."

Spock typed the name on his tablet: S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K H-O-L-M-E-S. The Starflee database produced a concise paragraph, with links to other places where the name appeared in articles and records. The list of external links was very short.

"What does it say?" Uhura asked.

"The information appears to be incomplete," Spock said. "The entry gives his full name, the names of his parents and his brother, his date of birth, where he lived, his education, and it does mention that he was a consulting detective. The last sentence says that he was, quote, most famous for his hand in the defeat of the notorious crime lord James Moriarty."

Uhura looked at him expectantly for a moment. "That's it? It doesn't say anything else about him?"

"As I said," Spock replied, "the information does not seem to be complete. It does not even provide the date of his death."

"You said that your mother told you he disappeared," Uhura said. "What does it say about that?"

Spock shook his head. "It says nothing. There is nothing in this entry even to suggest that he went missing."

"That's really strange." Uhura took the tablet from Spock and glanced over the article. "It doesn't even say anything here about things he did. Like faking his death, for example."

"Perhaps because it is an event that never took place," Spock offered.

"There you go again," Uhura said, shaking her head. "Why would your ancestors pass down a story like that if it wasn't true?"

"There are any number of explanations, Nyota," Spock said. "Perhaps they all believed the story to be true. It is possible that Sherlock Holmes really jumped off a building to carry out his own suicide, and my ancestress was so bereft at his loss that she convinced herself that he had merely faked his death."

"If he really did die like that," Uhura pointed out, "then why isn't it mentioned in this database entry?" She clicked on a link. "Look, here's a picture of him." She handed the tablet back to Spock. It showed a three hundred year old tabloid article from London, England. Below the headline was a photo of a man trying to evade the camera. He had his coat collar turned up and was trying to hide behind it, with an ancient-style deerstalker pulled down over his face. One wild, glinting, blue-green eye gleamed from the space between the hat and the collar.

"Well, that's not much of a picture, is it?" Nyota sighed.

Spock zoomed in on the photo. "He looks very familiar."

Uhura laughed and kissed Spock on the cheek. "You mean like your reflection."

"That is not what I meant," Spock said. "I feel that I have seen this man before."

Uhura looked at the picture. "I don't know. He doesn't look very much like you or your mother."

"Nevertheless, I am sure I have seen him before," Spock mused. His communicator chirped from his pocket.

"What is it?" Uhura asked.

"Strange. Doctor McCoy is requesting that I meet him in the Museum of Human Medicine."

"Well, what's strange about that?"

"It is strange because Doctor McCoy rarely seeks out conversation with me willingly."

Uhura laughed and kissed his cheek again.

"Well, you go have fun with Doctor McCoy," she said. "I'll see you tonight at my place for dinner.

"I do not think Doctor McCoy intends to meet me at the museum so that we can have fun," Spock stated as Uhura stood up from the bench.

Nyota laughed again as she walked away. "No, no, he probably doesn't."


	6. Chapter 6

Doctor McCoy was in the smallpox exhibit, reading, when Spock found him. He was seated on a bench, looking particularly morose under the fluorescent lights.

"Good afternoon, Doctor McCoy," Spock greeted.

The doctor looked up. "Oh, well, good afternoon, Mr. Spock."

"I received your message," Spock continued, "and am most intrigued as to why you requested our meeting. Unless I am mistaken, you are also on leave, are you not?"

McCoy nodded. "I am. I just figured we, ah...needed a little chat."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Doctor, if this pertains to a medical issue then I would appreciate a more straightforward answer."

"No, no, don't worry Spock, it's no medical issue. Why don't we just take a walk outside, huh?"

Spock and the doctor left the museum through a side exit. Spock followed Doctor McCoy for a few meters before he finally said, "Doctor McCoy, you are a man of no subtlety. What is your reason for wanting to speak with me?"

_"I'm_ a man of no subtlety?" the doctor asked. "Well lookit you, the pot calling the kettle black!"

"Doctor McCoy..."

"Alright, alright, don't get your ears in a twist." McCoy glanced around the street a bit uneasily. "Since we're on leave until repairs on the Enterprise are finished, I've been volunteering my time to help out with the study of Khan and the rest of his fellow him popsicles."

"Studying them from within the cryotubes?" inquired Spock.

"Yes, of course," the doctor scoffed. "Most of the research and data from the original eugenics experiments which created Khan and the others was destroyed in the Eugenics War, so when Khan was recaptured, and in light of his abilities-such as how his blood was able to restore Jim-, Starfleet thought it'd be a good idea to investigate the Augments' powers further."

"With the approval of the Federation Council, I assume," Spock said. "And they are no doubt ensuring that the proper safety measures are being taken."

The doctor coughed and cleared his throat. "Yes, well...Anyway, the person who was put at the head of the project is Doctor Leila Jaresh. She wanted me to invite you down to have a look at some of the work we're doing."

"I am puzzled," Spock admitted. "Why should this Doctor Jaresh request that I take a look at her research? I have no particular expertise in any are which might pertain to the study of the Augments."

"Oh, well, she just wanted the science officer of the most famous ship in the fleet to have a look-see," the doctor said offhandedly. "And Jaresh figured that it would be easy to get you to come, since we serve together-"

"Doctor McCoy," Spock interrupted, "it is apparent that there is some important issue here that you need my asisstance to address and which you are attempting to avoid speaking about."

The doctor stiffened. "Why, what makes you say that?"

"We are both on temporary leave, and yet you seek me out to ask me to come and inspect a research project on a subject in which I have no particular skill or affiliation. This, combined with the risky and familiar nature of the project you are working on, leads to the logical conclusion that you must need my help."

"Dammit, Spock." McCoy glowered sourly at the Vulcan. "Fine. You're right, we do want your help. But I can't tell you about it, certainly not out here. You'll still have to come down to our labs. Doctor Jaresh will explain everything for you."

"Doctor, has something gone wrong with the experiments on the Augments?" Spock asked sternly.

"I told you Spock, I can't tell you anything right now," McCoy grumbled.

Spock was silent.

The doctor sighed. "Listen, Spock. We made a mistake, something went wrong, and now we need to repair the damage before more is done. And we think you would be the best person to help us. But that's all I can say. All I'm asking is that you come down to the lab and let Doctor Jaresh brief you, and then you can decide what you'll do. You don't have to commit to anything until then. We really hope you'll be able to help us, Spock. It'll be the most..._convenient_ solution."

Spock frowned. "I will come. But I must ask, Doctor: Why do you need my help specifically?"

"Because sometimes the best and fastest way to do a job is to stick with the horse that's used to the plow." McCoy wouldn't meet Spock's eye. "It's something you've done before, Mr. Spock.


	7. Chapter 7

_Khan idly sipped his glass of water. The barkeep had almost laughed at such a request, until he'd felt the deadly weight of Khan's hand on his shoulder. _

_The darkest corner of the bar was where Khan sat now. It was the best vantage point-from the shadows he could see all the goings-on in this seedy establishment, but no one could clearly see him. Three exits: front entrance, back door, and fire escape to roof. Best of all-based on the proprieter's boots and complexion, there was a site-to-site transporter in the manager's office. It was a secret-to everyone but Khan. _

_Plenty of escape routes. A vantage point with no blind spots. And Starfleet wasn't even on his tail yet. Things were going well. _

_He watched the customers filter in and out. It was the hour of night where the only people who weren't drunk were those who had serious business to do. Or him. Even if it would have been able to affect his mind, with so much important work to do he would never have allowed himself a drop of alcohol. _

_Alcohol. Did it taste the same now as it had those hundreds of years ago? He'd stopped drinking it completely not long into the experiments. It'd taken him only a short time to realize that his newly improved metabolism worked too fast; drink was no longer a viable option if he wanted to drown out his troubles. _

_The truly great loss, though, had been the drugs. He'd gone for quite a few months before he finally gave up on smuggling them into his quarters at the laboratory. Long after the substances had stopped working for him, he'd still been addicted. Addicted to hope. The hope that maybe this time it would work, _this_ time the needle, the smoke, the patch, the pill would give him that long-awaited release and allow him to rise above all the tortures and sorrows he was enduring. _

_Of course no one had known what he was doing. How could they? From the start his intelligence had far surpassed theirs; the experiments had served only to widen that gap. None of the imbeciles there had ever guessed that he was trying to drug himself, and certainly none of them had guessed at his secret hope that if he took enough he would overdose and be able to leave. None of them ever knew. But Caesar...Khan had always suspected that Caesar had an inkling of what he was doing, even though he never said anything. Caesar often seemed to clumsily and inadvertently dredge up inklings. _

_No thoughts of Caesar. Khan focused on the people sulking at the bar and drifting in and out through the door. Which one, which one. Who would be the ideal victim, his _next_ victim? He could already tell there were several prime candidates in the crowd, people who could get him a ship and were manipulateable. But it wasn't just leverage he needed; he always preferred to exploit someone seeking help for all the right reasons. Like that Starfleet sap from a few months ago. _

_Finally he spotted one. She slunk in quietly form the street. Originally she'd been dressed nicely, but now she was in the final throes of giving up-evidently here to drink off the disappointment of another lousy date. In one glance Khan could tell she was the one he wanted: a woefully underpaid secretary and single mother, currently living alone because she was too proud to accept help from her parents. And her son had been recently diagnosed with a terminal illness. She was, in a word, desperate. _

_As if she'd sensed his thoughts, the haggard woman turned and met Khan's eye from across the room. He curled a beckoning finger and she hurriedly joined him in the shadows. He noticed a name engraved on her bracelet. _

_"Ms. Keane," Khan began with an innocuous little half-smile, "I can save your son."_


End file.
